


Love’s a hand me down brew

by middlemarch



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Friendship, Pets, job offer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: She had the sneaking suspicion this was going to become a case of "be careful what you wish for" in so many, many ways.





	1. Chapter 1

The truth was, Demelza Carne hated coffee. It was too bitter black and doctoring it up with cream and sugar only made for a drink that was a poor substitute for a White Russian. She found people’s attitudes about their dependence on the stuff to be annoyingly twee or downright disturbing and she wondered at the lives they lived that made them accept such chemical alteration as a basic necessity. She could have happily lived the rest of her life without seeing another heart or leaf swirled in foam—except that the job Ross Poldark had offered her as a server and barista at his coffee-shop Nampara had been all that stood between her and imminent homelessness. She’d positively guzzled the cup he’d set before her with an oversized blueberry muffin, unable to believe how her luck had changed.

“Does he bark?” he’d asked, gesturing at her dog Garrick, a mangy mutt she knew she was singular in finding attractive, but they’d weathered some storms together, she and Garrick, and sometimes his warmth, his slightly matted, dun-colored fur, were all she could find to console herself with. It was near-impossible to find a decent place to live that would allow him and that she could afford but she didn’t see how she could let him go.

“Not often. He’s a bit deaf and well, he’s not all the bright, so he doesn’t scare easily,” she’d replied.

“You can bring him but he can’t go in the kitchen, nor anywhere near the food prep. I’m already in debt, I can’t afford to have to bribe the inspector,” Ross had said. Demelza had glanced at him quickly, seeing he was serious about all of it in the same dryly humorous way that he’d conducted the rest of her interview.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to,” she’d said, sitting back in the upholstered wingback he’d pulled out for her before she could sit down. The old-fashioned gesture had surprised her but he hadn’t remarked on the pause, hadn’t complained when it took her a minute to realize he wouldn’t start to eat or drink before she did.

“I know. I should warn you, I generally do as I please,” he’d answered and she knew enough to take a man at his word; it was a warning and not a flirtation. She couldn’t help wondering about him though and she couldn’t stop herself from asking the question that had been bothering her the whole time.

“Why are you doing this? Hiring me, I mean,” she’d said. It wasn’t as if she had a lengthy resume or any real qualifications for the work, she was only passably pretty, and from what she could see, the place was already running smoothly, the two people behind the counter, an older woman named Pru and a younger one called Verity, both seemed more than able to manage the customers that filled the shop.

“I’m the boss, your boss, which means I don’t have to answer that. But I suppose I will. I want someone for the afternoon and evening, who won’t mind staying late, when Pru has to hurry home to warm up her husband’s supper since the dolt can’t even work a microwave and Verity is taking an evening class. Figure drawing, so I can’t ask to see her work, but she was so excited to get the spot. They’ve been with me since I bought this place and that’s what counts with me—loyalty. I’m willing to put up with a fair amount of trouble to see them happy. That enough for you, Miss Inquisitive?” he said, ending with a smile and not a smirk, so she knew she hadn’t outwitted herself with the question, irritating him into rescinding the offer.

“I only want to know when you want me to start,” she’d said, finishing the last of the coffee. It had been cold by then and she wasn’t as hungry, so she’d grimaced but he’d only taken the mug from her and said, “You don’t have to drink the dregs. I’ll get you some fresh.” She would have like to have seen him weave his way through the scattered tables and eclectic chairs, to appreciate how graceful he was, how easy on the eyes, but she’d considered that he was her employer or nearly and that he’d return with another cup of coffee, one she didn’t want to drink.

“No, that’s all right. Just, when shall I start? You didn’t say,” she said. He took the clean tea-cloth from his shoulder and pushed it across the table-top at her. 

“I thought, right now,” he said. “If you’re not wanting another cup, go ask Verity to show you how to make an espresso the way I like it.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I wish Ross were here,” Demelza said, leaning against the counter and surveying the coffee shop. Verity looked over at her, marveling at the way the late afternoon light made Demelza’s hair, what little escaped from the bandana she bundled it back in, an incomparable loveliness against her friend’s fair face and how the shadows that came with the waning day only served to make Demelza glow like a candle in the growing twilight. Nothing about her, not her worn jeans nor the faded thermal she wore under the shop’s uniform tee-shirt, her tatty handbag and her even scruffier, slobbery dog, could alter the brightness that she carried with her, the way her voice rose and fell as if she were singing to herself, the cleverness of her hands as she made her own designs in the creamy foam, not only the twee hearts that lovesick teenage girls generally wanted. 

It was a surprise to hear Demelza speak so frankly about Ross. He had hired her impetuously, but he always prided himself on his instincts and he’d been right once again. She was a hard worker who hardly ever complained about staying late or coming in early, washing out the equipment until it gleamed, and she’d mastered all the recipes inside of a week. She had a way about her that the regulars liked and she was scrupulous about sharing tips. Still, while Verity had caught the way Ross regarded Demelza when he thought no one was paying attention, an intrigued, almost hungry look that had a softness to it that was unusual, Demelza had only ever seemed to consider him her employer, a remote figure to be catered to when present and ignored the rest of the time. To hear her speak of him with such…longing, to watch her tap her full bottom lip as if she were gesturing to him to kiss her, standing with one hip canted to show the curve where his hand belonged, was an utter shock and Verity could not keep it from her tone, from her words.

“Demelza! I never thought I’d hear you talk about him that way,” she exclaimed. She meant it as a warning more than anything but she could see that was not what Demelza heard.

“ ** _That_** way? Vee, what way do you mean?” she asked. How did she look even prettier with her brow furrowed and her eyes a somehow darker blue? Verity found her art classes had only made her more attuned to appearance, more aware of the beauty to be found in others and more cognizant of her own resemblance to a pudding.

“You know, like a woman about a man she fancies. More than fancies,” Verity said, sure she was muddling only the expression, waiting for Demelza to blush and duck her head and admit she had a crush on Ross or possibly that she’d fallen in love with him, her handsome, dark-eyed savior in a leather jacket. She’d never seen him as Verity had over the past several years, scrubbing the sticky floors hung-over, haggling with suppliers when he couldn’t pay the bills, bored, nervous, despairing, all states that conspired to render a man human and not Byronically heroic.

“I didn’t mean that. Vee! I meant, that woman Elizabeth who hangs around every Thursday…she always tips a lot if he’s here, if he can watch her shove a wad of cash into the tip jar but she’s a skinflint when he’s not. I think she’d leave me a sixpence if she could,” Demelza explained. It made sense and Verity had noticed the same thing and more, how carefully made up Elizabeth was at the end of the day for a coffee-shop, how she applied her expensive lipstick at the table once she ascertained Ross was not present yet, how her eyelashes fluttered whenever he walked in and how she made sure to cross and uncross her long legs in her high heels or leather boots to attract the attention of any straight man. Still, Verity was not convinced that was all Demelza had meant, even if she didn’t know it herself. 

“Sorry. But you can’t blame me, not very much, for thinking the other, can you?” she said, listening as intently as she watched.

“No, I suppose not,” Demelza said. And there it was, a little, low catch in her voice that Verity understood enough to look away so Demelza would not have to acknowledge it, a sound it would take Ross some time to hear before he recognized what it signified. He would not take long to decide what to do about it when he did and that was what Verity could not predict. Not now, not yet.


	3. Chapter 3

“Have you seen my sketchbook, Demelza? I thought I left it right here,” Verity said, chewing her lower lip anxiously, gesturing at the corner Ross had had fitted out with a dozen pigeon-holes, where they kept any number of rarely needed items and evidently, where Verity had felt her sketchbook would be safe.

“Are you sure? You’ve been at sixes and sevens today. Ever since Andrew, that’s his name, isn’t it? Ever since Andrew was here, asking for you particularly to make his café mocha,” Demelza said. She was unable to resist teasing her friend a little but only just a little. Vee took self-deprecation to an extreme but Demelza had found nothing about her that wasn’t good or sweet or wise, except when it came to herself and her perceived deficits. Andrew had the look of someone who’d taken some hard knocks and was aware that good luck was rare and fleeting and Demelza had tried to unobtrusively help him make some kind of beginning with Vee when she’d found him with a copy of Auden’s The Dyer’s Hand open and heavily annotated but his eyes trained on Verity across the shop. 

“I wouldn’t have put it anywhere else. I didn’t want to risk getting it dirty or anything spilling on it,” Vee said, starting to look a bit frantic, picking up drying mugs and tea-cups, peering behind a bag of castor sugar.

“Why didn’t you leave it in your bag in the back?” Demelza asked.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant now, I didn’t and that’s that,” Verity replied, then paused to pinch the bridge of her nose, muttering to herself “retrace your steps” then opened her eyes to resume her search. “Because of Ross,” she added, rifling through drawers.

“Because of Ross what?” Demelza said. The plot thickened, as it usually did when Ross’s name was invoked, but he had a way of making things turn out right, graced with a preternatural luck that matched his rather fey, feline grace and his dark eyes she hadn’t learned to read. 

“Ross asked to see my sketchbook. Politely, nicely, I felt bad saying no even though I’m sure the drawings aren’t very good,” Verity answered.

“Did you look in his office then?” Demelza said, suddenly distracted by the memory of Ross leaving an hour or two earlier, tweaking the end of the apron tie that hung by her thigh, his lips in a soft smile she was unfamiliar with as he’d called “Tell Verity I’m sorry. I should’ve asked,” the remark incomprehensible and delivered so quickly there was not time to ask what he meant. Now she wondered…

“I’ll just be a minute,” Verity sang out, darting into the office Ross used, returning at double-speed with the folio clutched in her hand, its leather ties loose.

“Success! Demelza, you’re brilliant!” Verity exclaimed, her face far prettier in her happiness than she would ever give herself credit for.

“Can I just see something in it?” Demelza said. Verity had let her look through the sketches before and she had a good memory. She would find out if she was right or wrong and either way, she’d have to confront what it signified.

“Of course.” The folio found, Verity went back to sorting through some packets of spices that had come in a recent shipment, a task she’d announced she’d finish before she left for her class. Demelza opened the sketchbook and turned the pages lightly, glancing at the images—a still life of coffee cups in India ink, pencil drawings of Pru’s hands, Garrick asleep in the salvaged bedding Demelza had assembled for him. There was the watercolor tinting petulant Elizabeth into looking melancholy and Andrew hopeful, one hand against his cheek where the scar peeked from his scruffy beard. And there was Ross, drowsy in the full light of a summer noon, his collar open at the throat, his hair in need of a cut, utterly beautiful. And that was all, nothing else and Demelza knew why Ross had apologized and what he had taken. She had not heard Verity come up beside her but now she listened.

“Where’s that drawing? You know, the one I made of you, with your guitar? It’s the only one missing,” Verity said. She’d been proud of it, Demelza knew that, and she’d been glad her friend could see her talent at least a little. She herself had been flattered and yet felt exposed, to be seen so clearly, generously, but without anything obscuring the total honesty of the picture. The expression Verity had captured was one Demelza recognized not from her mirror but from the way her face felt when she made it, the thoughts and emotions behind the look in her eyes.

“I think you should ask Ross that, when you see him next. He did say to tell you he’s sorry, but that was the end of it,” Demelza said, looking down, across, anywhere but into Verity’s face, full of consolation and curiosity. Her own would not match, a fearful excitement, a mad yearning, and she didn’t want to tempt Verity to draw it later, even if she never had to see the finished work. She’d been right and now she’d had to decide what to do about it.


	4. Chapter 4

She hadn’t meant to snoop. Did it even count as snooping if she’d been told to go into the office and find the invoice on Ross’s desk so they could challenge the wholesaler with actual data and if Ross’s desk looked roughly as if Jupiter’s Great Red Spot had been at work on it for roughly the past twenty years, requiring Demelza to move some, all right, many papers around in search of the one headed WARLEGGANS in a militaristic font that Mussolini would have adored, and if during that thankless task (there had been an array of coffee cups with collection of primitive life-forms seeking to evolve and the crust of what must have been one of Prudie’s pasties mixed in with the myriad papers and folders), Demelza had found legal pads filled with equations, diagrams, Ross’s surprising copperplate hand elucidating complex engineering projects, making it clear that he was terribly, utterly wasted as the owner-manager of a small, slightly derivatively eclectic coffee-shop with pretensions to the Cornish coast and the Newlyn School? She felt 83% sure it did not. Whether or not the remaining 17% ought to have been much higher, she was now in possession of certain knowledge and possessing it, some pressing questions. Verity had shown herself more than willing to chat and they’d shared enough rude customers, recalcitrant fifty pound bags of coffee beans, and increasingly graphic musings over the 2015 issue of “Cara” with that dreamy Aidan Turner gracing the cover that she felt she might ask.

“Vee! You must know, you always do—why is Ross running a coffee-shop? Because his desk is littered with engineering designs and I can tell they’re serious, not just hacking around, and why is he just wasting himself here? Most restaurants go under before a year’s up, you know!” she called, putting the documents she needed in a manila folder that was decorated fractally with coffee splatters and rings, trying to restore the desk to some semblance of what she had first encountered but too inherently tidy to let it return to the jungle undergrowth vibe it had had.

“Vee! Did you hear me? I asked why’s Ross running this bloody coffee-shop when he could be heading an engineering firm!” she repeated. There were only a few customers left this time of day, all plugged into headphones and laptops, all in a window-seat where they could achieve some balance between their caffeine buzz and the hypnotic effect of the people walking by, the slick of rain that seemed to fall most days but most often at 7 pm. She could afford to shout a bit, knowing that Verity sometimes became abstracted on a slow evening, caught up in daydreams or worries, secret thoughts she wouldn’t share—yet. Maybe tonight, after Vee answered the question about Ross, maybe tonight Demelza would learn what so occupied Verity and why it was so hard to speak of it…

“Are you not going to say anything then? I was only wondering, wasn’t I?” Demelza said, turning the corner into the space behind the counter, nearly bumping into Ross, Ross and not Verity, not Prudie, not even Zacky working on the temperamental Italian espresso maker, only Ross whom she’d been shouting about like a fishwife, who looked at her as if he’d never met her before. Or as if they were old friends, meeting again after a long time apart.

“I wanted a decent cup of coffee,” he said. Was he serious or put out? She felt her cheeks burn, bit her lip, wishing she could look away but caught by his dark gaze, the shadows under his eyes and the bluer one of his unshaven cheek, the way his hand reached out to her. 

“Oh,” she heard herself say, nothing else, though she extended the folder to him and felt him take it, his hand grazing hers unexpected and unexpectedly necessary.

“Sometimes the answer’s a simple one, Demelza. At least to start,” he said. He didn’t say anything else and she tried to see the reflection of the rainy windows in his eyes but she couldn’t see anything else but him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Black Coffee" by Ella Fitzgerald.


End file.
